The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91, Maurice Hewlett [beautiful books to read .TXT] 📗

His Own Account, As You Shall Hear. But The Archduke Chose

To Stay In Acre--And So On.

 

King Richard Heard Of Each Of These Hasty Discussions With A Shrug, And

Only Put His Hand Down When They Were All Concluded. He Said That Unless

French Hostages Were Left In His Keeping For The Fulfilment Of

Covenants, He Should Know What To Do.

 

'And What Is That, King Of England?' Asked Philip.

 

'What Becomes Me,' Was The Short Answer, Given In Full Hail Before The

Magnates. They Looked At Each Other And Askance At The Sanguine-Hued

King, Who Drove Them All Huddling Before Him By Mere Magnanimity. What

Could They Do But Leave Hostages? They Left Burgundy, Beauvais, And

Henry Of Champagne--One Friend, One Enemy, And One Blockhead. Now You

See A Reason For Drawing The Sword Upon The Wretched Turks. If Richard

Had Planted, They, Poor Devils, Had To Water.

 

So King Philip Went Home, And The Marquess To Sidon For Lebanon; And

Richard, Knowing Full Well That They Meant Him Ill Here And At Home,

Turned His Face Towards Jerusalem.

 

 

When The Time Came For Ordering The Goings Of His Host, He Grew Very

Nervous About What He Must Leave Behind Him In Acre. Whether He Was A

Good Man Or Not, A Good Husband, A Good Lover Or Not, He Was

Passionately A Father. In Every Surge And Cry Of His Wild Heart He

Showed This. The Heart Is A Generous Inn, Keeps Open House, Grows Wide

To Meet All Corners. The Company Is Divers. In King Richard's Heart Sat

Three Guests: Christ And His Lost Cross, Jehane And Her Lost Honour, And

Little Fulke Upon Her Breast. Christ Was A Dumb Guest, But The Most

Eloquent Still. There Had Been No Nods From Him Since The Great Day Of

Fontevrault; But Richard Watched Him Daily And Held Himself Bound To Be

His Footboy. See These Desperate Shifts Of The Great-Hearted Man! Here

Were His Two Other Guests: Little Fulke, Who Claimed Everything, And

Still Jehane, Who Claimed Nothing; And Outside The Door Stood Berengère,

Crisping And Uncrisping Her Small Hands. To Serve Christ He Had Married

The Queen; To Serve The Queen He Had Put Away Jehane; To Honour Jehane

(Who Had Given Him Her Honour) He Had Abjured The Queen. Now Lastly, He

Prayed Christ To Save Him Fulke, His First And Only Son. 'My Saviour

Christ,' He Prayed On His Last Night At Acre, 'Let Thine Honour Be The

First End Of This Adventure. But If Honour Come To Thee, My Lord,

Through Me, Let Honour Stay With Me And My Son Through Thee. I Cannot

Think I Do Amiss To Ask So Much. One Other Thing I Ask Before I Go Out.

Watch Over These Treasures Of Mine That I Leave In Pawn, For I Know Very

Well That I Shall Get No More Of Them.' Then He Kissed The Mother And

The Child, Comforting Them, And Went Out, Not Trusting Himself To Look

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 5 (The Chapter Of Forbidding: How De Gurdun Looked And King Richard Hid His Face) Pg 130

Back At The House.

 

He Had Made The Defences Of Acre As Good As He Knew, Which Was Very Good

Indeed. He Had Bettered The Harbour; He Left Ships In It, Established A

Post Between It And Beyrout, Between Beyrout And Cyprus. He Sent Guy Of

Lusignan To Be His Regent In That Island, Emperor If He Chose. He Left

Abbot Milo To Comfort Jehane, The Viscount Of Béziers To Rule The Town

And Garrison. Shriven, Fortified With The Sacrament, He Spent His Last

Night In Acre On The 21st Of August. Next Morning, As Soon As It Was

Day, He Led His Army Out On Its March To Jerusalem.

 

Joppa Was His Immediate Object, To Which Place A Road Ran Between The

Mountains And The Sea, Never Far From Either. He Had Little Or No

Transport, Nor Could Expect Food By The Way, For Saladin Had Seen To

That. The Ships Had To Work Down Level With Him, With Reserves Of Men

And Stores; And Even So The Thing Had An Ugly Look. The Mountains Of

Ephraim, Not Very Lofty, Were Covered With A Thick Growth Of Holm-Oak:

Excellent Cover, Wherein, As He Knew Quite Well, The Saracens Could Move

As He Moved, Choose Their Time, And Attack Him On Front, Rear, Or Left

Flank, Wherever Chance Offered. It Was A Journey Of Peril, Harassing,

Slow, And Without Glory.

 

For Six Weeks He Led And Held A Running Battle, Wherein The Powers Of

Earth And Air, The Powers Of Mahomet, And Dark Forces Within His Own

Lines All Strove Against Him. He Met Them Alone, With A Blank Face, Eyes

Bare, Teeth Hard-Set. Whatever Provocation Was Offered From Without Or

Within, He Would Not Attack, Nor Let His Friends Attack, Until The Enemy

Was In His Hand. You, Who Know What Longanimity May Be And How Hard A

Thing To Come At, May Admire Him For This.

 

Directly The Christians Were Over The Brook Belus, Their Difficulties

Were Upon Them. The Way Was Through A Pebbly Waste Of Beach And

Salt-Grass, And A Sea-Scrub Of Grey Bushes. A Mile To Their Left The

Rocks Began, Spurs Of The Mountains; The Shrubs Became Stunted Trees;

The Rocks Climbed, The Trees With Them; Then The Forest Rose, First

Sparsely, Then Thick And Dark; Lastly, Into The Deep Blue Of The Sky

Soared The Toothed Ridges, Grey, Scarred, And Splintry. Scurrying

Horsemen, On Beasts Incredibly Sure Of Foot, Hung On The Edge Of These

Fastnesses, Yelling, Whirling Their Lances, White-Clad, Swarthy And

Hoarse. They Came By Fifties, Or In Clouds They Came, Swept By Like A

Windstorm, And Were Gone. And In Each Shrill And Terrible Rush Some

Stragglers, Be Sure, Would Call Upon Christ In Vain. Or Sometimes Great

Companies Of Mamelukes In Mail, Massed Companies In Blocks Of Men, Stood

Covered By Their Bowmen As If Offering Battle. If The Christians Opened

Out To Attack (As At First They Did), Or Some Party Of Knights, More

Adventurous Than Another, Pricked Forward At A Canter, And Hastening As

Their Hearts Grew High Cried At Last The Charge, 'Passavant!' Or 'Sauve

Anjou!' Out Of The Wood With Cries Would Come The Black Cavalry, Sweep

Up Behind Our Men, And Cut Off One Company Or Another. And If So By Day,

By Night There Was No Long Peace Under The Large Stars. Desperate

Stampedes, The Scattering Of Camp-Fires, Trampling, Grunting In The

Dark; Ghostly Horsemen Looming And Vanishing Suddenly In The Half-Light;

And In The Lull The Querulous Howling Of Wild Beasts Disappointed.

 

To Their Full Days Succeeded Their Empty Days, When They Were Alone With

The Desert And The Sun. Then Hunger And Thirst Assailed Them, Serpents

Bit Them, Stinging Flies Drove Men Mad, The Sand Burnt Their Feet

Through Steel And Leather. They Lost More This Way Than By Saracen

Ambush, And Lost More Hearts Than Men. This Was A Time For Private

Grudges To Awaken. Hatred Feeds On Such Dry Meat. In The Empty Watches

Of The Night, In The Blistering Daytime, Under The White Sky Or The Deep

Violet, Des Barres Remembered His Struck Face, De Gurdun His Stolen

Wife, Saint-Pol His Dead Brother, And The Duke Of Burgundy His Forty

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 5 (The Chapter Of Forbidding: How De Gurdun Looked And King Richard Hid His Face) Pg 131

Pounds.

 

It Must Be Said That Richard Stretched His Authority As Far As It Would

Go. His Direct Aim Was To Reach Joppa With Speed, And Thence To Strike

Inward Over The Hills To The Holy City. It Was Against Sense To Attack

This Enemy Hugging The Woody Heights; But As Time Went On, As He Lost

Men And Heard The Muttering Of Those Who Saw Them Go, He Understood That

If He Could Tempt Saladin Into Close Battle Upon Chosen Ground It Would

Be Well. This Was A Difficult Matter, For Though (As He Knew) The

Saracen Army Followed Him In The Woods, It Kept Well Out Of Sight. None

But The Light Horsemen Showed Near At Hand, And Their Tactics Were To

Sting Like Wasps, And Fly--Never To Join Battle. At Last, In The Swamp

Of Arsûf, Where The Dead River Splays Over Broad Marshes, And Goes In A

Swamp To The Sea-Edge, He Saw His Chance, And Took It.

 

Here A Feint, Carried Out By Gaston Of Béarn With Great Spirit, Brought

Saladin Into The Open. The Christians Continued Their Toilsome March,

Saladin Attacked Their Rear; And For Six Hours Or More That Rearguard

Fought A Retreating Battle, Meeting Shock After Shock, Striking No

Blow, While The Centre And The Van Watched Them. This Was One Of The

Tensest Days Of Richard's Iron Rule. De Charron, Commanding The Rear,

Sent Imploring Messengers--'For Christ's Love Let Us Charge, Sire, We

Can Bear No More Of This.' He Was Answered, 'Let Them Come On Again.'

Then Saint-Pol, Seeing One Of The Chances Of His Life, Was In Open

Mutiny Of The Tongue. 'Are We Sheep, Then?' Thus He To The French With

Burgundy. 'Is The King A Drover Of Cattle? Where Is The Chivalry Of

France?' Even Richard's Friends Grew Fretful: Champagne Tossing His

Head, Muttering Curses To Himself, Gaston Of Béarn Pale And Serious,

Chewing His Beard. Two More Wild Assaults The Rearguard Took Stiffly, At

The Third They Broke In Two Places, But Repelled The Turks. Richard,

Watching Like A Hawk, Saw His Opportunity. He Sent Down A Message To The

Duke Of Burgundy, To Saint-Pol And De Charron--'Hold Them Yet Once More;

At Six Blasts Of My Trumpet, Charge.' The Duke Of Burgundy, Block Though

He Was, Was Prepared To Obey. About Him Came Buzzing Saint-Pol And His

Friends: 'Impossible, My Lord Duke, We Cannot Keep In Our Men. Attack,

Attack.' Saladin Was Then Coming On, One Of His Thunderous Charges. 'God

Strike Blind Those French Mules!' Cried Richard. 'They Are Out!' This

Was True: From Left To Centre The Christian Bowmen Were Out, The Knights

Pricking After Them To The Charge. Richard Cursed Them From His Heart.

'Sound Trumpets!' He Shouted, 'We Must Let Go.' They Sounded; They Ran

Forward: The English First, Then The Normans, Poictevins, Men Of Anjou

And Pisa, Black Genoese--But The Left Had Moved Before Them, And Made

Doubtful Richard's Échelon. They Knelt, Pulled Bowstrings To The Ear.

The Sky Grew Dun As The Long Shafts Flew; The Oncoming Tide Of Men

Flickered And Tossed Like A Broken Sea, And The Soldan's Green Banner

Dipped Like A Reed In It. A Second Time The Blast Of Arrows, Like A Gust

Of Death, Smote Them Flat: Richard's Voice Rang Sharply Out--'Passavant,

Chivalers! Sauve Anjou!'--And A Young Poictevin Knight, Stooping Low In

His Saddle, Went Rocking Down The Line With Words For Henry Of

Champagne, Who Ruled The Centre. The Archers Ran Back And Crouched;

Richard And His Chivalry On The Extreme Right Moved Out, The Next

Company After Him, And The Next, And The Next, Company Following

Company, Until, In Echelon, All The Long Fluttering Array Galloped Over

The Marsh, Overlapped And Enfolded The Saracen Hordes In Their Bright

Embrace. A Frenzied Cry From Some Emir By The Standard Gave Notice Of

The Danger; The Bodyguard About The Soldan Were Seen Urging